


From the Ruins

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/F, Kvatch, Oblivion Crisis, in which lunette, my nerevarine, returns there after hearing of its destruction, who grew up in kvatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: It is a few months after the end of the Oblivion Crisis, and Lunette (formerly Nerevarine), who grew up in Kvatch, decides to return to that city, having heard of its destruction.
Relationships: Ilmeni Dren/Female Nerevarine
Kudos: 4





	From the Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> I should say that, if you know anything already of Lunette, you may notice that she has mellowed a little, at this point. She's grown up, for one thing; she was the Nerevarine, she was mixed up in all sorts of things in Morrowind, and that profoundly affected her; and she fell in love, properly this time, with Ilmeni Dren, who here accompanies her to Kvatch.

When I heard of the fall of Kvatch, it surprised me a little, when my first instinct was to want desperately to go there, and see what had happened...

I am not sentimental about places: I know that there is nothing stable in a place, that it will never be quite the same, when one returns to it; that one cannot cling to a place, in the mistaken belief that one’s past will be perfectly preserved there, as it is in one’s memories. I had grown up in Kvatch, certainly. But I had not returned in, oh! so many years, I had not even been back to Cyrodiil, I would achieve nothing, by seeing the smoking ruin of my former home...

But my curiosity was morbid and my wish overwhelming: and so, once the Oblivion Crisis was firmly over, once the dust had settled over the remnants of our previous normality, I decided I would go. – If nothing else, it would let me escape awhile from the pointing fingers of those certain Dunmer who had decided that I was to blame for the Crisis, as I apparently was for most things.

And so I went, by boat and then by carriage, to Cyrodiil.

Already as I ventured through the province did I notice the changes, the ravages of the Crisis. Cyrodiil had not suffered so much as Morrowind had: the Imperial Province, after all, had had the advantage of entire legions recalled from elsewhere, when they had put their own selfishness above any hope of future interprovincial relations. But the people were weary, and haggard; the cities dull and shocked; and there was, on the journey, a vast stretch of flattened meadow, strewn with debris, and overlooked by the still-smouldering remains of an Oblivion Gate, a stark reminder of what had happened.

I surprised myself, when I decided I could not be too angry at the Empire’s actions. They had been egocentric, certainly, and little concerned for those outside of Cyrodiil: but that is panic, that is desperation, that is the mortal mind faced with the incomprehension of a supernatural power. Cyrodiil had suffered, too. And its biggest county-town had been torn to shreds, razed to the ground, in a single horrible night!

I should say that Ilmeni had accompanied me on this voyage, on what felt like some morbid pilgrimage. She had never seen Cyrodiil; I had said that it would be better not to see it at all, than to see it in pieces; she had come anyway, and I was more thankful for the company than I dared to express.

We had stayed in Skingrad overnight – Skingrad having survived the Crisis with scarcely a scratch, things seemed almost normal there, and gave one a sense of false optimism – and set out early the following morning; it was a few hours later when we perceived Kvatch properly on its hill, and I let out a cry.

‘That’s Kvatch, then?’ said Ilmeni, and squinted at it out of the window.

‘It...’ I could hardly speak: ‘oh, it looks horrid...’

Almost a decade ago now, I had set out for the Imperial City, and glanced back at Kvatch as it disappeared over the horizon; – it had been grand then, tall gleaming walls, the castle and church spire rising above them; houses beyond the walls, spilling down the hillside, a city that could not contain its exuberant bustle. Now the hillside looked almost bare; the walls were _black_ , coal-black; and while the church-spire was still there, the castle was barely, a single asymmetrical tower above battered crenellations.

We did not talk again for a long while, not until we had almost reached the foot of the hill. Our driver seemed hesitant to drop us off there, said there was little to see in Kvatch; but it was our destination, and he could not refuse our disembarkment.

Our perceptions of the hill as empty had not been entirely correct: the slopes by the winding road were yet occupied by citizens, but living in tents, and by day wandering aimlessly, huddled up to each other, or just staring into the distance. – It was months since Kvatch had been destroyed, and they had weathered the winter out here! – these people who could not move on, in so many senses of the phrase; these people who had seen Oblivion, and who might be called survivors, but that the people they were before had not survived in the slightest... We spoke to some, received brusque monotone responses, learnt that they were _fine_ out here, that they lived here, that no, they did not need our help, and would we please leave them alone?

The Oblivion Gates had opened in front of the city, on a plaza in front of the gate that had once been used for an open-air market. The ground was still scorched – warm, as if fire yet burned within it – and the towering remnants of the Great Gate itself loomed wide before us, as if it might once again re-open, and consume all that it had left behind. Here guards approached us, and asked our business; I said that I had once lived in Kvatch, and wanted to see it; and I was for that immediately allowed entry.

It might have been better, if Kvatch had been entirely unrecognisable...

I was overwhelmed, when I entered, not by the destruction, but by what little had survived. The most striking was the Chapel of Akatosh, which had remained all but unscathed: its walls were scorched by the flames that had consumed its neighbours, but it yet stood among the rubble. There was a figure at the doorway, in clerical robes, looking out over the city as if his eyes saw the past, saw the city still flourishing, from his little corner of preservation... But though the chapel caught the eye, those who remembered Kvatch as it was would not fail to recall what had once stood about it.

There had been another market, in the square; and around it there had been five or six little shops. I had not frequented the shops, in the traditional sense, and remembered them only by how easy they were to steal from: but that is not to say that I did not feel a sudden pang, on seeing them gone, a heartbreak I could not quite account for. I had gone through the cellars into the jewellery-shop, on one particularly daring occasion; I had stolen trinkets from the general goods, while one of my fellows distracted the gullible old proprietor; I had stolen a particularly significant amount of things from the pawnbrokers, retrieving items of sentimental value that the unfortunate of the city had been forced to give up, or forgotten possessions that might fetch a good price. The bakery I remembered especially well, for entirely different reasons: the baker had been a darling, and was protected by the Thieves’ Guild, because she would give all of her scraps and anything that didn’t sell to the poor of the city...

I found this bakery, and it was almost entirely gone, for it had been wood; it was identifiable only by the little painted sign, and the soot-covered remains of a bread-oven. I could not help myself, I asked a guard what had become of the baker, and he told me that she had perished.

Of course she had, so many people had, I could not hope that anybody had survived...

Across from the Chapel, the official Guilds had plied a trade; the Fighters’ Guild was flattened, and the Mages’ Guild had fared little better. I had never visited either of these, of course: but I remembered the Mages’ Guild in particular, I had often envied the mages: and when I was very little I had been captivated by their stained-glass window...

The window had not survived in its entirety, but I found by chance a small shard of blue glass among the ruins, and could not help but pick it up. Ilmeni looked at me, and at the glass; I hurriedly wrapped the latter in a handkerchief, and pocketed it, and did not respond to her questioning glances.

The Thieves’ Guild, too, had operated from this guild-quarter: but unofficially, and from a ramshackle little house sitting discreetly against the city wall. The house had been stone, but it had still burned down, I found: the inside was full of blackened rubble, and the outside but a low outline of the walls, of the rooms I remembered. I fumbled among the ruins, but stood no hope of finding the cellar-hatch. I doubt they would have preserved my old bedroom anyway.

‘This was where I lived,’ I told Ilmeni, shrugging a little, as if it did not matter: ‘where the Thieves’ Guild used to be based.’

‘Do you remember much about it?’

‘Only that... this room was the kitchen, Jenelle usually cooked, she taught the rest of us to cook as well... the room next to it was a common-room and a meeting-room... Jenelle slept upstairs, and so did Beredor, and Hastrel... the rest of us were downstairs. I had a bedroll in the corner, and Johan made me a bookcase, just a small one...’

I had remembered far more than I thought, far more than I could say, the corners of my eyes were burning a little; Ilmeni saw the distress I tried in vain to conceal, and took my hand.

‘I’m _not_ sentimental about the building,’ I said: ‘I just... well, they’ve all perished now, I suppose... the people who brought me up...’

She pressed my hand more tightly, and I fell into her embrace, overcome.

I had never appreciated where I grew up, or who I grew up with. I had aspired to better, seen it as a temporary arrangement that I would not ever recall, when I was an adult, and doing something far more important, something better. I had pushed Jenelle away, because she was not my mother, because I did not need _her_ help; I had pushed away those who might be friends, because they would not be so for very long, because I wouldn’t need friends in the Thieves’ Guild, when I had friends in higher places...

I had left Kvatch thinking I would not miss it, and now it was gone, and I missed it more than anything in my life.

I had said I was not sentimental about a building. Ilmeni knew I was lying, and so did I. But it wasn’t just the building, it was the feeling that, one day, maybe, I would have been able to return home. I would have opened the door, and set my tattered shoes on the mat, and Jenelle would have been there, in the kitchen, and she would have welcomed me back, as if I had never been away...

‘Is there anything you can keep, from all this rubble?’ Ilmeni said, quietly.

I shook my head: no single item could hope to be valuable enough.

She understood; we sat together for a good while, thinking, praying, remembering; I do not know how much time had passed, when at last we emerged from our reverie, for it had started to rain.

We decided to shelter in the chapel: it was, after all, the last edifice standing. While I had lived in Kvatch, I had hardly ever been in the chapel, and did not remember what it looked like; it turned out to resemble all of the other chapels in Cyrodiil, save that there was a grim sort of silence within, and it was at first glance entirely empty of people.

That was at first glance; after a long moment I perceived movement in the shadows at the front, by one of the altars, and a woman smiled at us across the room, an acolyte perhaps, before coming closer and inspecting us more thoroughly.

I would have known her anywhere: it was Marianne.

She had been in the Thieves’ Guild with me, back in Kvatch: about my age, but much brighter and bolder and more eager. I have mentioned that I pushed away potential friends, and Marianne was the chief among these, she had always tried to converse with me, to involve me in things. I remembered her red hair, which was still striking: but I remembered her smile more, and against all odds recognised that first.

Did she recognise me? –

She squinted, came closer still: and then she cried:

‘Oh! you look _just_ like... like someone I knew...’

‘Marianne, it’s me,’ I replied.

‘ _Lunette_!...’

Suddenly she swept over, took me in her arms, swung me off the ground and pressed me tightly to her.

‘Oh! praise all the Divines, I _knew_ you were still alive, I knew it, I knew it!’

‘ _You_ have survived Kvatch,’ I could not help but say, when at last she set me back down.

‘Only just,’ she said, more seriously: ‘I was lucky, I think. Some might say unlucky, it depends on how you look at it. – But I thought – I heard you were executed –’

‘I was spared,’ said I, ‘spared, and sentenced to hard labour, and then...’ It was a long story, and I supposed it would end up told, but I had not then the energy for it. ‘I thought I was unlucky... but all things considered I think I am lucky to be alive,’ and I hazarded a glance back at Ilmeni, who had distanced herself a little, and sat in a pew.

So much had happened, since last I saw Marianne – a lifetime, the collapse of worlds – and I think we both acknowledged this, and set it aside, for it was almost too big to comprehend, for the moment.

‘You’ll remember Jenelle,’ said Marianne: ‘she is still alive, she was in the City when it happened, at the Waterfront. She’s still there.’

‘Oh!’ said I.

‘Everyone else you knew...’ She thought a bit, enumerated them: most of them had perished in the attack, but some had fled, some had already left; some did not survive long enough to see the Oblivion Crisis, and to some extent that was an escape. ‘It was always a bit strange, without you. – Nobody knew you’d survived, or someone would have told me by now.’

‘I am in the Guild in Morrowind,’ said I: ‘I suppose the two haven't communicated to any significant extent, over the past few years.’

‘No, I can’t say we have...’

‘There’s a lot that might be told, then.’

‘Very much so.’

She bounded forwards, and hugged me again; I leaned into it, tried to equal her enthusiasm.

‘You know, it’s a shame we were never friends,’ said Marianne: ‘we were like sisters, there was nobody else remotely our age. I mean, not that we have to be, now; not that you have to tell me your story, or even talk to me –’

I remembered Marianne, so long ago, and I was overwhelmed once again... I remembered how she’d been the adorable child who distracted shopkeepers, while I and the others stole what we could; I remembered how she’d danced down the street, and people had gladly given her money, or food. She’d been the spirit of old Kvatch: that smile, that beaming optimism, despite everything. A charming child, who could talk nineteen to the dozen, who’d regaled me with stories, and I had pretended not to listen, I hadn’t looked up from my books, but she’d talked anyway, and I had listened, gods, I had liked the company...

I remembered old Kvatch, that city which lay in ruins about me, which lived only in my memory – and in Marianne before me.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll stay long here,’ said Marianne, at last. ‘You have another life somewhere, no doubt. But stay a bit, if you like, it’ll be nice. And then... give it a year, or two, and then come back. We’ll rebuild it. The Empire’s already promised to rebuild it. It won’t be the same, but...’

‘I...’ I ventured, and faltered.

I had not gone to Kvatch expecting to find anything worth coming back to, and then I’d found Marianne, and she’d spoken of _rebuilding_. If she had done nothing else, she’d already rebuilt something, she’d rebuilt the notion of _home_ , for me. – It is hard enough to express now, in writing: I could scarcely say it at all, to Marianne, in that breathless moment.

Gods, I wanted to stay...

It wouldn’t be the same, it wouldn’t ever be the same, but I was not sentimental about places, or at the least, I claimed that. I could still visit Jenelle in the City, and leave my shoes on her mat, and watch her cooking; I could still come to Kvatch, and walk the streets with Marianne, and talk with her, nineteen to the dozen. Just as the church yet stood, and new Kvatch would be built round it, Marianne yet lived, and she’d be my cornerstone.

I do not quite know what I said to Marianne: I know only that she understood. I wanted to build something, from the ruins: from the ruins of my old life, from the ruins of the place I’d never realised was home. There was something secret in her story, too, another towering ruin, and another project for rebuilding: she _understood_. I had Marianne, and I had Ilmeni; the Crisis was over; and the world was not stopped. What use is sentimentality, when one clings to something, and wants it to remain ever the same? – No! better to look forwards, than back, better to remember, but not linger. Oh! how glad I was, that I had chosen to return to Kvatch!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to ludioimbris on tumblr for the prompt 'ruin'!


End file.
